


No More Surprises

by CatAvalon (CazinaIna)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Bathtubs, Because it's me, Birthday, Birthday Fluff, Coming In Pants, Everyone Knows What's Up But Yuri, Family Dinners, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Light Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, Love Confessions, M/M, Makeup, Pining, Secrets, Stereo-typical Cat Bathroom Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 01:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13870176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CazinaIna/pseuds/CatAvalon
Summary: If Otabek wants to keep secrets- well, that’s something he’s chosen to do, and Yuri’s just got to live with it.For now.





	No More Surprises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pllsetskyonice (hma1313)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hma1313/gifts), [Francowitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Francowitch/gifts), [JujuRotfuchs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JujuRotfuchs/gifts).



> Me: Let's write something for Yuri's birthday-  
> Also Me: You have three unfinsihed wips  
> Me: But-  
> Also Me: And a two zine pieces to work on  
> Me: But it's-  
> Also Me: And a whole list of things you've started but not finished  
> Me: I'll keep it short!  
> Also Me: Why is there 6k in your doc  
> Me: That is short for me
> 
> Just a little stupid fluffy piece for my son's birthday, as well as a belated taster gift for Juju and Jes. And for Helen, because secret santa fucked up and you deserved a gift so fucking bad. Enjoy!
> 
> (I didn't specifically say an age bc I didn't really know what age I was writing. I'll leave it to whatever you want to imagine!)

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

It’s half seven in the morning and the only thing keeping Yuri’s body moving is the substantial amount of caffeine in his veins. Last night had been rough. Really rough, in the _no sleep_ variety- and not even in the good way. Otabek hadn’t called last night and it’d left Yuri mopey and miserable, and that had developed into bone deep worry. It was irrational, the fear that gripped him like a vice, tightening on his lungs with every breath. _What if something’s happened_ and _what if I’ve done something wrong_ ’s all but consumed him as Yuri twisted in his sheets, twisted the shirt of Beka’s he was wearing between his fingers, over and over, trying to wring his thoughts dry.

He’s still wearing the shirt now, hanging loose on his frame as he glides around the rink. At the sight of Yakov’s furrowed brows, Yuri’s motions still, and he comes to a stop at the break in the barrier.

“Why are you here, Yurochka?” Yakov asks, voice strangely soft. Yuri heaves a sigh and steps off the ice, wiping the sweat that has formed on his forehead away with a flick of his wrist. “You were given the day off.”

Frowning at his feet, Yuri tries to summon the words to say _I’m lonely_ without sounding as weak as even thinking the words makes him feel. “I can practice if I want to.”

“You can,” Yakov says, and Yuri startles when he feels a hand encompass his shoulder, “But I want you to relax. For just one day, Yuri.”

“And,” Yakov continues after Yuri’s sitting by his training bag, back turned and lumbering to his office. “I know for a fact that Mila’s on the way to your apartment with breakfast, so I’d hurry on back if I were you.”

 _Great,_ Yuri thinks as he unlaces himself. Mila prodding and prying is just what he doesn’t need today, but he knows better than to leave her to her own devices in his apartment- she has a spare key, after all. His mood sours even further when he spares a glance at his phone.

No new notifications from Otabek.

Nothing.

_Fuck._

When he gets back, Mila’s already taken over his living room. There are containers of food all over the coffee table and a stack of presents piled on one of the sofa cushions. Mila herself is warbling off-key in the kitchen, the scent of the coffee she keeps there permeating through the room. With a huff, he dumps his bag by the door and slams it shut, and Mila keeps on singing, unfazed.

“Happy Birthday, my dear Yurochka,” she coos when he eventually dredges up the energy to join her, hopping up onto the countertop and unsuccessfully avoiding the fingers that come to pinch at his cheek.

“What are you doing?” he grumbles, accepting the cup that’s pushed towards him and allowing the heat to seep into his frozen fingers. “I said I didn’t want any fuss.”

“Everyone says that, even Viktor,” Mila says, dumping sachet after sachet of sweetener into her own cup. “No one means it.”

“ _I_ meant it,” Yuri says, gritting his teeth. Mila has the audacity to pout at him before narrowly avoiding one of his kicking legs and collapsing onto the sofa. Of course no one actually listened to him when he said he didn’t want to celebrate. After finding out that Beka couldn’t take time off before Worlds to come and see him, every thought of a _happy_ birthday shrivelled into dust- dust that Mila obviously feels like she has to kick up and play in.

“Come on, Yuri.” He stops his wallowing for long to glance over at her. There’s a hopeful smile curving her lips, and a stack of pancakes in her hand.

Yuri’s traitorous stomach rumbles.

“They better be strawberry,” he mumbles before sinking into the seat next to her. They eat in relative peace, Potya sniffing around for scraps and licking at Yuri’s syrup slicked fingers. Yuri supposes that it’s as nice as it could be without the looming thoughts of Otabek clouding up his mind, and thankfully Mila knows his limits enough not to press him on the dark circles bruising his under eyes.

“I thought,” Mila starts around a mouthful, pushing Potya off her lap for the umpteenth time, “that we could have a pamper session. Masks, candles, the lot.”

“Mila-” Yuri tries to complain, but he’s shushed into silence.

“When was the last time you treated yourself?” she asks, collecting their empty boxes.

“I just consumed like five hundred more calories than what is on my diet plan,” Yuri mutters, scooping Potya into his arms. He tries to talk himself out of checking his phone, but he does so anyway, another wave of paranoia rolling through him when there’s still nothing from Beka. _Who doesn’t wish their best friend a Happy Birthday?_

“Stop that,” Mila scolds him, plucking his phone from between his fingers and stashing it away on top of his fridge. It’s what she’s done in the past, after horrible media backlashes, or when particular Instagram photos garner a lot of the _wrong_ kind of attention. _Out of sight, out of mind,_ she’d said the first time, and normally she’s right. Now the distance feels unbearable, and the thousands of miles between himself and Beka wrap around his throat.

“He hasn’t even texted,” he admits when she returns, fingers tight in Potya’s fur. A deep sigh, and an arm is wrapping around his shoulder. Yuri buries his face in the softness of Mila’s chest, allows his hair to be played with as she lists off all kinds of reasons why Beka hasn’t contacted him. When even that doesn’t make him feel better, she encourages Yuri into his bathroom, and begins to fill the tub with water.

It’s easier to forget with his brain fogged with sweet scented steam. Mila leaves him sitting on the floor as she retrieves a bulging bag of beauty products, picking at the mat beneath his body. Tea lights line the counter and cast a low, flickering glow across the tiles, the dancing shadows almost enough to lure him to sleep.

“Come on, Yurochka,” Mila says, tugging on his hands until he’s on his feet. The bath is almost overflowing with bubbles, and Potya’s perched on the toilet seat, eyeing them tentatively.

Wordlessly, they strip, the trophies they bear on their skin in the form of bruises exposed. There’s a particularly nasty mark marring Mila’s side, purple and patchy, and Yuri knows he’s got a matching one on his left knee from a particularly nasty fall. It’s been years since he’s been embarrassed being naked around Mila, he knows more about the ins and outs of her body than he ever wanted to as someone exclusively into guys, but he can’t help blushing when Mila winks at him over her bare shoulder.

Somehow the two of them manage to squeeze in beneath the foam without it overflowing. The first time they’d attempted something similar, Yuri had spent forever after Mila had left mopping up water and getting glitter from the bath bombs out of the gritting in his tiles. Now, though, Mila can calculate just how high to fill the tub so it only _threatens_ to spill, and that’s good enough for Yuri.

“Watch your fucking toes, baba,” Yuri says when he feels a sharp jab to his thigh. He grabs what he thinks is her ankle and tugs, and Mila disappears deeper into the water.

“ _I_ watch _my_ toes?” Mila gasps, flicking bubbles at him, “Yours are practically burying themselves into my hips.”

“Hey, it’s _my_ birthday,” Yuri argues, poking her purposefully this time. “You should give me a little more space.”

“Oh now it’s your birthday, is it?” She raises a single, fading eyebrow. Her makeup has all but melted away, but Yuri’s always thought she looks beautiful without the layers of eyeliner and mascara anyway. She smiles in a way that crinkles her nose and tucks a damp curl behind her ear. “Come here, I got that mask you like from lush.”

Yuri allows himself to be pampered. Fifteen minutes later, he’s sat back with clay drying on his face and deep conditioner sinking into his scalp. He even allows Mila to massage his feet, god forbid he allow anyone else to do it. Even beneath the water he can see the badly set broken bones, the burst blisters- but Mila has those too, and knows exactly how to treat them.

“You’re almost as good as Beka,” Yuri lets slip before he even realises what he’s saying. Mila’s fingers freeze on his heel, Yuri’s own body tensing up, coiled tight with the same nervous energy that kept him up all night. Mila’s lips part, but Yuri shakes his head before she can speak. “No. It’s fine.”

“I’m sure there’s a reason,” Mila says anyway, going back to kneading his flesh. “Something super important.”

“More important than me?” Yuri sniffs, turning his head away. He stares at Potya, who’s made a makeshift bed out of Mila’s leggings and lacy bra. He’d laugh at her tiny head buried in one of the cups if he didn’t feel so fucking miserable.

“Nothing I say is going to make you feel better, Yurochka,” Mila says softly, bringing back his attention. “You’re just going to have to trust me when I say that no one else in the world is more important to Otabek than you.”

“Yeah, except his mother,” he huffs.

And then he bolts upright. “You don’t think something’s happened to her, do you?”

“No! No, Yuri, no-”

“What if she’s in hospital, and I’ve just been sat, here slagging off her son-”

“Yuri, nothing is wrong with Otabek’s mother.” She grips Yuri’s calves, keeping him rooted into the tub through his attempt to drag himself out. Water sloshes over the side and spreads to Potya’s island of clothes, and she yowls as the puddle spreads to her paws. Yuri allows the words to anchor him, allows himself to close his eyes as the meaning behind Mila’s words wash over him.

“How do _you_ know?” Yuri says slowly, voice low as thunder. After a few more seconds, he sinks back into the water and crosses his arms. Mila’s chewing her lip, and _God_ she only does that when she’s making excuses to Yakov or hiding the fact she’s lost Viktor’s Gucci sunglasses.

“I’ve… spoken to him.”

“You’ve spoken to him?” _Why her? Why not me?_ A thousand torturous thoughts tornado through his mind, a storm of betrayal brewing beneath his skin. Yuri tells Otabek everything. Otabek tells _Yuri_ everything- or, at least, Yuri _thought_ he did. On the contrary, though, it appears the trust between them is unreciprocated.

Like Yuri’s feelings.

“Yuri, calm down,” Mila urges. Hair has fallen into her eyes, and the only way Yuri could describe her appearance is frantic. He imagines, he muses with a sickening twist in his stomach, that he looks the same. “It was last night, he just wanted to know what you were doing today.”

“And he couldn’t ask me himself?” She shakes her head. “Couldn’t even send me a text?”

“I’m sorry, Yurochka.” And Yuri knows she is, can see the sorrowful slump of her shoulders and the frown tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“You should have told me, baba.” He, in return, hates that he’s shouted at her when she’s gone so out of her way to spoil him, always the bratty child he tries to prove he’s not. It’s not her fault that Otabek’s being an A grade asshole on his fucking birthday of all days, but that doesn’t dissipate the dizziness of dishonesty.

“I promised I wouldn’t,” Mila says softly, leaning in and taking one of Yuri’s clenched fists and smoothing his fingers out over her palm. “It’s a good thing, though, trust me.”

 _Trust me_. Placing his belief in anyone other than himself is something Yuri’s always struggled with, and it’s hard, especially now that he knows there’s some sort of secret spiralling just out of his reach. In his experience, secrets were slammed doors, wretched whispers spilling from the space between the frame and the threadbare carpet.

But it’s also the rev of an engine, the gentle vibrations between his thighs as Otabek drives them through the Almaty countryside, to his favourite spot in the mountains with nothing but a worn blanket and a thermos of hot tea. _I’ve never taken anyone here before._ Yuri can see the stars, warm and bright, can see Mila smile, and it’s so open and honest, and it’s really hard not to believe someone when you can see every inch of them, the gentle rise and fall of their chest, every blemish on their skin.

If Otabek wants to keep secrets- well, that’s something he’s chosen to do, and Yuri’s just got to live with it.

For now.

Sighing, Yuri twines his fingers with Mila’s and _squeezes_.

“It fucking better be.”

*

“It’s just lunch with Viktor,” Yuri moans, wriggling his still drying toenails, “Why are we making such an effort?”

They’re both still wrapped in towels, Yuri perched on the edge of his bed whilst Mila kneels behind him. Her hand swipes over the back of his neck as she takes another chunk of hair to curl, and Yuri can’t help but shiver.

“You want to look good for your birthday Instagram post, don’t you?” Mila hums, yanking at his roots as she works with the iron. He can feel the heat of her breath ghosting over his ear as she whispers, “Don’t you remember what happened last year?”

Yuri gulps. If it were anyone else asking, he’d deny it to hell and back. But it’s _Mila_ . It was her shoulder he’d drunkenly cried on half the evening, whining about some _dumb, stupid Kazakh idiot._ It was her bed he’d woken up in the next morning, her toilet he’d thrown up his guts in, her kitchen he’d opened Instagram and seen the absolute _horror_ that was his most recent post.

It’s burned into his mind, even now. A messy selfie coated in mascara tears and smudged lipstick, tangled with matted hair and four little words. _Wish you were here._

His social media had blown up, question after question asking who Yuri was talking about, endless people tagging Otabek and any other guy Yuri had shared a selfie with in the past year. Of course it’d died down as quickly as it had roared to life, Yuri claiming he meant it as some sort of broad inclusion statement, but Mila knew better.

Mila knew he was sulking over Otabek’s absence. Mila knew just how much his best friend really meant to him. And the best part? Yuri had told her himself, stirring the straw of his third strawberry daiquiri and lamenting how unfair it was to be born right before Worlds.

Much like he’s doing this year, if only internally and considerably less intoxicated.

When Yuri doesn’t reply, Mila prods him in the shoulder and hums. “That’s what I thought.”

To her credit, Mila does make Yuri look fucking _hot_ . She’s skilled in winged eyeliner in a way Yuri could only dream of being, and she knows exactly what face products to use to hide his dark circles and make his skin glow. Once the setting spray is in place, and Mila hands him a mirror, he can’t help but let out a low whistle. _If Beka could see me now…_

_No._

_Don’t think about him._

“I look like some kind of Victoria’s Secret model baba,” Yuri muses, fluffing his curls and looking pointedly into the glass. A smirk curls the corner of his lips. “Damn.”

“I’ve always been told I have magic fingers,” she says with a wink, waggling them over his shoulder before pinching his cheek.

Yuri suppresses a shudder. “Ew. Don’t make me sick before I have the chance to show myself off.”

“I’m not making any promises.”

The next half hour is spent watching Mila do her own makeup whilst playing with Potya on his bed. One of the small gift boxes Mila had brought with her had contained a fuzzy mouse that Yuri’s currently dragging across his comforter, Potya’s paws pattering after it. Every year, Mila buys presents for the cat too, and it never fails to make his heart fuzzy.

“Is anyone home?” Someone calls from deeper in the apartment, and who is Yuri kidding. It isn’t someone, it’s fucking _Viktor_. “We come bearing gifts for our son.”

“In here!” Mila calls out just as Yuri shouts _fuck off._ Dealing with Viktor and his extraness is something Yuri’d rather do fully dressed, but alas, he comes marching into his bedroom, shopping bags hooked on his elbows and sunglasses pushing back his silver hair, revealing the harsh line of his receding hairline. Yuri can hardly see Katsudon through the light flare from his forehead.

“Happy Birthday, darling Yurochka.” And of course he thinks it’s appropriate to full on _smother_ him. Yuri’s just about choking on _Tom Ford_ aftershave and his mohair knit jumper. “Gosh, you are so beautiful, you’re going to break daddy’s heart-”

“Viktor,” Katsudon hisses, tugging his husband by the sleeve and offering Yuri an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Yuri, he’s been like this all morning.”

“More like all his fucking life,” Yuri mutters, and Mila cackles. She finishes applying a final coat of mascara to her perfectly curled lashes before going through the bags that Viktor unceremoniously dumped at the foot of Yuri’s bed before launching himself at him.

“Whoa, is this Gucci?” Mila exclaims, a sweatshirt pinched between her blood red nails, and Yuri would know it anywhere, has been lusting over it for months. _Finally, Viktor’s good for something._

“Yes, it is, and it’s mine,” Yuri says, taking the garment from her greedy hands and staring at it with lust. A giant cat head with _blind for love_ written beneath it in scarlet. _Blind for love_. Yuri snorts. “Thanks, old man.”

“And that’s not all!” Viktor enthuses, fanning his hands with excitement, because if there’s one thing that even comes close to shopping for his own wardrobe, it’s shopping for someone else’s. By the time Yuri’s seen the bottom of all the bags, he’s mentally planning on how he’s going to be able to squeeze an extra set of drawers into his room, and he’s being penetrated by Mila’s envious gaze.

Yuri will share his new possessions with her.

 _If_ she’s lucky.

“Shall we leave you to get dressed?” Katsudon asks, gesturing to the towel still wrapped around Yuri’s waist. “We’ve got reservations at the new Japanese place down _Rizhskiy Prospekt_ in about an hour.”

Mila dresses him in a pair of shredded skinny jeans and a sheer shirt because _if I can’t wear it, let me at least style it._ It doesn’t really bother Yuri; he at least trusts Mila’s eye for fashion, and he can at least be her personal barbie for the day if it’ll stop her from stealing the pair of platform boots she’s been side-eyeing since he pulled them out of a Louboutin box- curse his tiny doll feet. He speculates whether the faux leopard fur jacket she wraps his shoulders is too much, but then he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, hands on hips and chin held high, and all insecurities melt away.

Before they head out the door, Mila suitably dressed in a velvet playsuit and leather jacket, Yuri retrieves his phone from the fridge, refusing to glance at the screen before he slips it into his back pocket.

If Otabek has messaged him, it can wait. Right now, it’s he just wants to spend time with his family.

*

Yuri thinks the button on his jeans is gonna pop off. The katsudon at this place Yuuri’s discovered is nearly as good as Mama Katsuki’s, and the tempura were so good Yuri’d ordered seconds. Viktor hadn’t even complained at his excess calorie intake, probably because his own dishes were empty, and he’d even had the audacity to recline in his seat and inch his belt looser a couple notches. If Yuri weren’t so stubborn, he’d follow suit.

“That was so good,” Mila sighs, throwing her full body weight on Yuri’s shoulder and almost sending him toppling into the stacks of dishes before him. Yuri struggles to throw her off, but she just clings on tighter, nails digging into the flesh of his forearms through the flimsy fabric of his shirt. It’s probably the sake they’d shared at the table rearing its ugly head, and unfortunately for Yuri, he’s surrounded by affectionate drunkards. “Where’s the cake, Vitya?”

“Mila!” Okay, so obviously _that_ was supposed to be a surprise. Yuri’s grateful for the warning; maybe he can sneak out of the building, or hide in the toilets until the festivities are over. Knowing Viktor, he’s probably paid some poor employee to sing to him, and the last thing he wants is the shared embarrassment of _not wanting it to happen_ , and _not wanting to do it_.

Excusing himself, Yuri pushes past Mila and slinks into the restrooms. He wastes time relieving himself, and then reapplying his lipstick over the sinks. His hand isn’t so steady now he’s had a little to drink, but he still manages to get the job done well enough to go home in at least. Mila might have a differing opinion, but now that he’s spa’d out and stuffed, all he wants to do is go home, wipe off his makeup and watch Netflix in bed with Potya.

And, maybe- _maybe-_ Skype Beka.

His phone burns a hole in his pocket, and before he knows it, his finger is hovering over Beka’s name, over the call button.

And a message comes through. A fucking message comes through, and it’s from _hours_ ago, an apology. _I’m so sorry for not calling_.

And then a _Happy Birthday, Yura_.

Followed by a heart.

Yuri’s own heart flickers in his throat, before painfully squeezing its way back down into his chest. There’s no explanation, no reason he had time to call Mila but not him, but it’s enough.

It’s enough for now.

“Ah! There you are!” It’s Katsudon, poking his head around the restroom door, hair rumpled and glasses slightly askew on his nose. Yuri doesn’t remember it happening, but his phone is dark on the counter, and his fists are gripping the cold porcelain of the sink. He feels the heart Beka sent within his own, he feels the distance between the tightening around his throat.

He takes a breath.

“Please don’t tell me they’re going to sing.”

“They’re not going to sing,” Katsudon says, laughing softly. “Vitya called the whole thing off.”

“Fucking good,” Yuri huffs, stuffing his phone into his pocket. “The thought of eating cake right now makes me wanna gag, anyway.”

They return to the table, where Viktor is talking away to the owner in Japanese and taking care of the bill. When he squeezes back in beside Mila, she gives him a weird look, concern mixed with a glassy-eyed expression you can only get if you’re well and truly drunk.

“He texted me,” Yuri says quietly, hoping not to garner Viktor’s attention.

“And?”

“And what?” He shrugs into his jacket and shakes out his hair. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Mila says, her hand coming to resting on his thigh. Yuri can feel the clamminess of her palm through the rips in his jeans.

“Well, I am,” Yuri retorts, sticking his tongue out. Mila looks like she’s about to argue- Yuri really wouldn’t put it past her to make a scene at a family restaurant- but instead she simply kisses him sloppily on the cheek. “Come on, _baba_ , let’s get this photo taken.”

At the mention of the _P_ word, Viktor’s whipping out his phone and handing it to the poor baffled employee he’d been talking to. Yuuri quietly apologises for his husband’s impudence, but moves so he’s standing behind Yuri, a hand placed tenderly on his shoulder. Mila wraps her own arm around Yuri’s waist, and before he knows it, Viktor’s exclaiming _skazhi izyum,_ and the flash is blinding his eyes.

The picture turns out alright, but anything is passable in comparison to last year’s hot mess. Mila spends a few minutes moulding him into suitable selfie poses, and by the time she’s done there’s a lipstick stain on his cheek and her camera roll is a couple dozen photos fuller. He’s relieved to finally step out of the restaurant, bitter cold air biting at his nose despite the fact that it’s supposed to be Spring in a few weeks.

It’s only when they’re a few blocks away from his apartment that dread prickles at his skin. The thought of stepping out of Viktor’s stupid pink Cadillac, out of the bubble of loudness and laughter, to be alone in the solitude of his apartment makes him feel faintly nauseous.

“You… don’t wanna come in and watch a movie or something, do you?” he says quietly, twisting his seatbelt between his fingers. Silences stretches through the car, broken only by Lady Gaga singing about a Bad Romance. _Well_. Yuri definitely hadn’t expected Yuuri and Viktor to exchange flustered glances, or the way Mila not-so-subtly shifts in her seat.

She’s chewing on her lower lip.

“Why don’t we go and get some supplies?” Yuuri says, and it’s like his words physically cut through the string that’s pulling the tension tight between them.

“Yeah!” Mila enthuses, sagging back into her seat. “Some popcorn, some nachos. It’ll be great!”

“But I’ve got-”

“We can get some of the good movie theatre stuff,” Viktor adds, pulling up outside Yuri’s apartment building. Their eyes meet in the rearview mirror, and Yuri can’t help but narrow his gaze.

“Fine, but can’t we just go there now?”

“No!” Everyone shouts in unison. _What the…_ Yuri closes his eyes, breathes deep, and tries to figure out what the _fuck_ is going on with everyone. First it’s Beka acting weird, and now it appears it’s spread over the Caspian sea to fucking Russia too. _Am I even awake? Is this a psychedelic dream?_

“No,” Yuuri repeats, and Yuri jolts when his hand pats his knee. “No, we’ll sort it out. Why don’t you get changed whilst we’re out?”

“Fine,” he huffs, because what point is there in arguing against two dramatic Russians, and a borderline coercive husband? “If you fucking insist.”

“Oh, it’ll be worth it, Yurochka!” Viktor says, and Mila chokes on a giggle as he swings the door open and stumbles out the vehicle.

After the car zips away down the street, he takes a few moments to simply breathe, letting the cold air sting his lungs and at his eyes, hiding that he most certainly _isn’t_ on the brink of tears. Why does everything have to be so _complicated_? He scuffs the heel of his boot on the pavement before staring up at his apartment window.

“Whatever,” he mumbles. He’s got a cat to cuddle and a tiger print onesie with his name on it. If he’s going to sulk, he might as well sulk in style.

“ _Stupid Viktor_ .” He’s at his apartment door now, turning the key in the lock. Once inside, he grumpily shrugs out of his jacket and starts fumbling at his buttons; his fingers are numb and trembling, but it isn’t because of the cold. “ _Stupid Katsudon._ ”

“ _Stupid Mila_ ,” his grouching continues, treading over a bundle of ribbon that Potya must have played with in his absence. At least one person in his life never betrayed him- he could always trust his cat to be there for him. Yuri clicks his tongue to garner the feline’s attention, receiving a low, lazy meow in response from his bedroom.

Following the sound, he kicks off his shoes in the hallway and starts working on his belt. In his back pocket, his phone begins vibrating, which brings another person to mind. Shaking his head, Yuri pushes into his room.“ _Stupid fucking Be_ -”

He cuts himself off with a noise that isn’t quite a scream, but certainly isn’t manly enough to be considered a grunt. Every ounce of anger he’s felt in the past day drains out of him, and just as quickly floods his veins. Everything _burns_ , his chest, his eyes, the fingers clenching at the waistband of his jeans.

Before him, there’s a weekend bag.

A bouquet of fiery roses clasped in a fist.

A fist connected to _stupid_ _fucking_ Otabek _motherfucking_ Altin.

“You asshole. You fucking asshole!” Yuri shouts from the doorway. His whole body is trembling, his bones threatening to break free from his skin through the vibrations, but he doesn’t know what causes it more- his anger, or his overwhelming _relief_. “I fucking hate you!”

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Otabek says, and _God_ , his fucking _voice_. It makes Yuri’s already weak knees buckle, and he takes one stumbling step before he’s on the floor, hands covering his face as his shoulders shake with sobs. “Yura?”

All Yuri can do is shake his head, scrubbing his eyes in an attempt to erase the tears threatening to spill over his cheeks. It takes a second for Otabek to wrap his arms around him, another to draw him in, pressed tightly to his chest. Yuri can’t help himself- he takes in deep, sputtering breaths, dragging the scent of Otabek’s skin into his lungs, letting it dissolve into his bloodstream and become a part of him. He can barely hear the sound of murmured nonsensical words of comfort over the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“No more surprises. No more fucking surprises _ever_ ,” Yuri chokes out eventually, voice gravelly and raw. His fingers curl into the collar of Otabek’s Team Kazakhstan jacket, forehead resting against the sharp jut of Beka’s collarbone.  “Today has fucking _sucked_.”

“Yura.” A hand brushes through the dishevelled curls of his hair, down the nape of his neck and over his shoulder. “Yura, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you’re here.” He tries to laugh, but it’s wet and gurgling, and it ends up morphing into some sort of sad sniffle that has him rubbing his face into the soft jersey of Otabek’s jacket. “I just wish you had _told_ me.”

“I didn’t even know I was coming until last night,” he confesses, thumb rubbing soothing circles into his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to see you.”

“God, I wanted to see you too. So, _so_ bad.” Yuri pulls back so he can really take Beka in. Stubble lines his jaw, and there’s a softness creasing at his under eyes that tells Yuri he too hasn’t slept well. Reaching out, Yuri trails his fingers over the tops of Otabek’s cheekbones, the strong line of his nose, the slight dip of his cupid’s bow, just so he knows that he’s real. This is real. He’s _here_ . “I can’t _believe…_ ”

“Yura,” Otabek says, and it’s nothing more than a gentle rumble in the back of his throat that vibrates through his chest, straight into Yuri’s. They blink at each other for a moment, Yuri can see the awful reflection of his ruined appearance in the depths of Otabek’s eyes.

And then they’re kissing. Yuri doesn’t know who reaches for who first, but their lips meet, and it’s hot and heady, filled with years of dancing around each other, years of suggestive comments and borderline flirting, years of intimate touches and every single hour they’d spent on Skype watching the other sleep. Yuri’s arms wrap around Otabek’s neck, his fingers disappearing into the thick of his hair and tugging, pulling him closer and closer until they share the same space, the same breath, the same heartbeat, echoing into each other’s chests.

“Be-ka,” Yuri sighs when he has to pause to breathe, their lips never quite parting. They kiss again, slow and sweet, and it’s enough to rekindle the heat thrumming beneath Yuri’s skin.

He allows Beka to be gentle with him for a little while longer, fingers feathering up his bare sides and just the barest touches of tongue, before Yuri grows _hot._ He grows hot, and he’s biting Beka’s lip and scratching his nails through his undercut, and he’s pushing Otabek down into the carpet and straddling his hips, slowly rolling against him.

Pleasure boils beneath his skin, and Yuri captures the gasp that breaks from Otabek’s throat with his lips, kissing until he’s all-consumed by the heat of Otabek’s skin, by the heat of his desire, and he’s shuddering beneath Otabek’s palms.

“Yuri, Yura,” he chants like a prayer, the syllables heavy with lust. He thinks, as he continues to move against Beka, that he might fall apart, tear at the seams and spill every single dark insecurity he’s ever felt, until all there’s left is light. Light, and Beka. “Yuri, we need to- I’m gonna-”

The warning washes over him without truly sinking in. Yuri trails his mouth from Beka’s lips to his jaw, nipping and sucking a trail down his throat until he’s met with the flesh that joins Otabek’s neck and shoulder. It tastes of salt and skin, of his own tears and the sweat that’s building on them, and Yuri sinks his teeth in, wanting _more_ , more of them together, more Beka.

Beneath him, Otabek stutters, his hips raising to bring up into Yuri’s as a breathy grunt fills Yuri’s ears. The grip Beka has on his waist tightens momentarily, before going slack, and Yuri glances up to see the first flush of pink colour Otabek’s cheeks.

“Did you just…?” He has to ask, even though he can feel Otabek softening beneath him, would be able to see the tell-tale stain on his grey sweats if he pulled back enough.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, burying his face in Yuri’s hair. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” Yuri repeats, stroking down his sides. His fingers slip beneath the waistband of his sweats, brush against Beka’s still sensitive dick, rewarding him with a soft groan. His own erection, still pressing hard against his jeans, twitches at the sound. “That was so fucking hot, Beka.”

Otabek doesn’t say anything, but he does pull Yuri so he’s lying comfortably on his chest. He can’t imagine being sprawled out on his floor is all that comfortable, but for a few moments, they just stew in each other’s presence, listening to the soft noises of contentment the other makes.

When his own arousal becomes a persistent ache, Yuri guides one of Otabek’s hands to the fly of his jeans, watches in fascination as his dick is released and Beka’s large hand wraps around it, stroking slowly. They exchange kisses as Otabek works him to completion, twisting at the head and collecting the precome at the slit with his thumb. Yuri never knew how good it would feel, someone else touching him in the same way he does in the dark, but it’s not long until he’s moaning against Beka’s mouth and spilling into his hand.

“God, you’re so beautiful, Yura,” Beka praises, kissing Yuri’s cheek, his jaw, anywhere he can access. “So beautiful.”

“Beka,” he whines softly, burying his face in Otabek’s chest. It feels so surreal to be like this together, sharing intimate moments, sharing themselves, when only hours before Yuri was just about losing his mind thinking they weren’t even _friends_ anymore. Well, apparently they’re more than friends now, but Yuri has to know this is going where he thinks it is. “What are we?”

“Boyfriends, if you don’t still hate me,” Otabek says with a chuckle, pressing a kiss to Yuri’s forehead.

“I don’t,” Yuri says sheepishly, staring at the bouquet of roses that Otabek must have dropped to the floor. Potya’s playing with the string tying them together, and it’s enough of a distraction for him to say, “I kind of fucking love you.”

“Well, that’s good,” Otabek muses, tucking hair behind Yuri’s ear to garner his attention again. “Because I _kind of fucking love you_ , too.”

Yuri doesn’t have time to feel flustered, because his phone begins ringing in his back pocket. Only sparing Otabek a quick, bashful glance, he tugs it out and sits up, readjusting himself when Otabek’s eyes fall to the space between his thighs.

“So, do you still want us to come round?” Mila has the cheek to ask, because of fucking _course_ everyone was in on this. Yuri glances down at his come streaked stomach, at the stains on Otabek’s sweats, and at the promise of fun his double bed holds.

“Only if you want to entertain yourselves,” Yuri says before hanging up and tossing his phone to the side. A playful smile twists at his lips as he stands and strips out of what little of his clothing remained, and then holds out a hand for Otabek. “You have some making up to do.”

“Do I?” Otabek retorts, quirking an eyebrow. His shirt comes off first, and Yuri kisses the stretch of skin above where his heart would be.

“Yes, you do.” The rest of his clothes follow suit, and fucking _wow_ , Otabek Altin is the most gorgeous person Yuri’s ever laid eyes on. Blushing, Yuri allows himself to be pulled into an embrace, the feel of all of their skin meeting overwhelming for just a moment, but it soon fades into the safe intimacy Yuri’s been craving with Beka for years as they melt against each other.

“Happy Birthday,” Beka says belatedly, once they lying on Yuri’s mattress and their fingers are exploring each other. Yuri can’t get over the feeling of Otabek’s muscles shifting beneath his touch, the burn of his stubble against his neck, his chest, between the apex of his thighs.

It’s long gone dark, and when Yuri pries himself away just long enough to piss and pick up his phone, the brightness of his screen illuminates the room. Once he’s settled in Otabek’s arms again, he opens up Instagram and is greeted by the photos he’d partaken in earlier: the group picture from the restaurant, and a selfie with Mila’s lips pressed to his cheek. Beka’s lips are there now, smiling against his skin as he scowls at the #prouddads #happybirthdayson hashtags. He still needs to post something himself, to say thanks to all his birthday wishes and whatever, and his eyes flicker down to Otabek’s marked chest, to the fingers resting against his hip, and he grins.

“Come here,” Yuri says once he’s snapped on the bedside lamp. Otabek shifts further up the headboard, pressing a soft kiss to Yuri’s neck as he opens up his camera. “Let’s show these assholes what a real selfie looks like.”

Otabek just snorts against his skin, hiding in Yuri’s hair as Yuri smirks for the camera. The end result is slightly scandalous- the hickies mottling Yuri’s fair skin are obvious but he glows with a radiance only ever achieved in Otabek’s presence.

He looks happy. _They_ look happy; Yuri can see Beka’s small smile peeking through the gaps in Yuri’s curls. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.

@yuri-plisetsky: I got a boyfriend for my birthday- you better think big for next year, bitches! @otabek-altin #boyfriends #birthdayboy #nomoresurprisesthough

“Do you like it?” Yuri asks before he presses posts.

Otabek only glances at the screen for a moment before he’s nodding, submitting the image himself before he ducks to capture Yuri’s lips with his. “I love it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know I have other things to work on. I'm sorry D: Inspiration comes when it wants to, and I ended up with this completely unplanned out piece of hot mess. I hope some of you find enjoyment in it, anyhow!
> 
> Hopefully I'll be posting something else very very soon (;
> 
> [ zeldaismyhomegirl](http://zeldaismyhomegirl.tumblr.com/)  
> [ @ItsCatAvalon](http://twitter.com/ItsCatAvalon)  
> xoxo Cat


End file.
